


Bright, For Lack of a Better Word

by dontforgettohugyourangel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:02:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontforgettohugyourangel/pseuds/dontforgettohugyourangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You put the host of heaven to shame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright, For Lack of a Better Word

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Destiel Word Prompt Challenge on Tumblr. My word was "Grace"

To Castiel, his Grace was never anything more than an energy source. The mystic ball of light that facilitated his existence, though extraordinary and cherished as any gift from his Father, was simply a means of existence. His brothers and sisters shown brightly with it, lighting all of heaven like a multitude of shooting stars and the beauty of it always dazzled him. He remembered looking down at himself, feeling himself buzzing and burning in his own measured way.  
   
He was not the brightest; a foot soldier in a garrison of generals, a flickering candle in a sky of supernovas but this never bothered him. He was not proud; knew that every angel had its duty and he was content to fulfill his obediently and to the best of his ability. His contribution to the army of heaven was small, mostly reconnaissance and small missions against demon strongholds until he’d received orders that he was to be part of the army that broke into hell to save Dean Winchester.  
   
He’d known it was a suicide mission; that lesser angels would most likely be trapped and tortured but he’d been told to go, so he went. His brothers and sisters blazed white hot in hell’s flames, their beauty so pure against the crippling ugliness around them and he knew their Grace, their energy, was the only thing keeping them from being dragged down into the hideousness of the pit. He was uttering a quick thank you to his Father when he’d spotted the Winchester boy.  
   
Castiel had thought it was one of his own fallen at first, Dean’s light stuttering but still brilliant amongst the flames and Castiel’s Grace trembled at the thought of something so beautiful being destroyed. It wasn’t meant to be him that raised the Winchester boy but as his hand sizzled on Dean’s shoulder, Castiel’s Grace marking him, there was no other alternative.  
   
Castiel could not even now fully process the ramifications of that action. He sometimes wondered how his existence would have been altered if it were one of his brethren instead of himself that found themselves explicitly bound to the wayward young man that managed to get himself into so much trouble. Would they have found themselves growing fond of him as Castiel had, drawn in by the fiercely flickering light of his soul? Would they have admired his willfulness and his courage? Would they have rebelled for him?  
   
As Castiel watches the young hunter rip his hand back from underneath the hood of the Impala, cursing so loudly that a mere mortal would have been given quite a shock, his inquiry is met with a large, resounding no. He is relatively certain none of his brothers and sisters would have found Dean’s drunken antics tolerable much less amusing and he already knew they considered his irreverent speech to be the worst kind of blasphemy. As it was Castiel managed to find it rather endearing.  
   
Dean is giving his hand quick, jerking shakes, blood slinging through the air from his cut knuckle and Castiel counts each drop as it mingles with the dust and oil on the garage floor. They seem to glisten in front of his eyes, sparkling like sun on snowflakes and Castiel wonders if the reason he found Dean first was because he was so accustomed to watching others set the heavens on fire with their light when he was content to merely shimmer.  
   
“You’ll want to wrap that,” Castiel warns, his voice a mere vibration in his chest and Dean doesn’t so much jump as his body is propelled a foot in the air from the shock.  
   
“Goddammit, Cas,” Dean scolds, clutching his heart and Castiel can feel it beating from where he stands five feet away.  
   
Castiel merely blinks at the oath, feeling the blasphemy ripple along his wings, the words quite literally ruffling his feathers. Dean’s mouth snaps shut, his jaw tightening as he lets his arms fall to his sides, blood still running down his fingers.  
   
“Sorry,” he mutters, eyes flicking from Castiel back to the car and Castiel feels his apology more than he believes the words.  
   
The silence unfurls between them, Castiel standing as silent and still as he was before but now the hunter’s eyes cut his direction every once in awhile as he wraps his cut knuckle in a swatch of found gauze.  
   
“What are you doing here?” Dean asks suddenly, his voice gruff but Castiel takes no offense to his rudeness. That’s just Dean.  
   
And just as Castiel accepts Dean’s gruffness Dean is forced to accept that Castiel’s silence is not meant to offend. Castiel only imparts information he deems necessary and Dean knows that’s just Cas.  
   
“Come on surely there’s a shepherd somewhere that needs some good tidings of great joy?” Dean smirks at his own presumed cleverness and Castiel remembers that sometimes Dean _doesn’t_ accept his silence. When the quiet stretches on Dean turns away from the engine and looks at him. “Seriously shouldn’t you be up there doing Angel PT or something?”  
   
Castiel blinks and finally Dean gives up, shaking his head before ducking back under the hood. “I’ll never get it man. You managed to pull the biggest presidential pardon in the history of…like… _ever_ and you’re still dicking around down here.” Dean shakes his head again, letting out a chuckle. “I mean, you’ve got your wings back, all your angel mojo... shouldn’t you be up there…I dunno,” Dean pulls back and turns towards the angel who stares at him stoically. “…racing airplanes or something?” His brow furrows as he grabs a soiled rag, wiping off his wrench. “The other angels aren’t being asshats to you are they?” he asks, dropping the rag and then, pointing the wrench at Castiel, he says, “Because one foggy Christmas Eve, that blinking nose thing is gonna come in handy.”  
   
Castiel blinks, brows drawing as he attempts to look down the slope of his nose but sees nothing blinking and Dean’s snort of laughter lets him know that he’s missed something.  
   
“Never mind Cas,” Dean says waving a hand and Castiel is mesmerized by the split-second glow that’s left in it’s wake. As much as he had always enjoyed the blinding lightshow put on by his brethren it was nothing compared to flickering beauty of Dean Winchester’s soul.  
   
“I much more enjoy the scenery here,” Castiel says and the smile wipes cleanly off Dean’s face, a look of confusion, shrouded in uneasiness covering his features before it’s replaced with exasperation.  
   
“Dude, we’ve talked about this,” Dean says his head falling back in a sigh.  
   
“I’m all the way over here,” Castiel says but takes another step back just as a precaution and Dean shakes his head, waving his hand as if to say, _never mind you’re never going to get it._  
   
Castiel sighs thinking he’s probably right.  
   
“I find it hard to believe watching me change the points,” he cocks his head towards the Impala, “is more entertaining than catching Angelina Jolie in the bathtub but hey…to each his own,” Dean says, holding up his hands before turning back to the car.  
   
“Your ideas of heaven are woefully inaccurate,” Castiel finds himself saying, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and Dean turns back, his eyebrows raised at the angel’s show of amusement.  
   
“Oh really? Well tell me Clarence,” Dean says, setting aside his tools and leaning back against the front of his car, folding his arms over his chest, “what is Heaven like for the angels?”  
   
Castiel is struck somewhat speechless, not so much by the question but by whose asking it. Dean has himself planted so firmly in this life, on this earth, that the idea of him being even remotely curious about the workings of Heaven seems absurd. But he’s waiting patiently for an answer, reaching for the beer bottle he’d set in his toolbox, taking a drink raising his eyebrows, and prompting the angel to speak  
   
“It’s…hard to put into words,” Castiel says after a moment.  
   
“Is it bright?” Dean asks his condescension buffered by his underlying curiosity and Castiel is blinded by the mere memory.  
   
“Yes,” the angel replies, looking down at the floor and blinking to clear the spots from his vision.  
   
“Just some mystery light…like when you open the refrigerator door?” Dean asks and Castiel has to look up at him to discern that he’s only teasing.  
   
“No it’s brighter,” Castiel says simply and is instantly frustrated by the impotence of the word.  “It’s like…setting off one of your nuclear bombs inside a supernova…” he pauses, frowning, “but brighter.”  
   
“Huh…” Dean says, his shoulders jerking slightly from the expression. “Sounds boring.”  
   
“It’s beautiful,” Castiel says, his voice holding an edge of defensiveness. “The others coming and going, a multitude of colors…” his voice trails seeing it all in his mind, the memory untarnished.  
   
“The others?” Dean asks and Castiel’s body jerks, his vessel’s reaction to being startled out of his daydream. “You mean the other angels?”  
   
It takes Castiel a moment to process the other man’s words, the lights of Heaven still dancing behind his eyes when he focuses his attention on Dean and the combination of the most luminous soul he’s ever seen with the multitude and power of the Host of Heaven strikes him dumb.  
   
“Of course.”  
   
“Like you all are just running around up there like nuclear glowsticks?” Dean asks, with an open mouth grin, coughing out a laugh as Castiel takes a few steps towards him, studying him with an almost rapt expression  
   
Castiel’s brow crinkles as the words process. “No it’s brighter than a glowstick…nuclear or otherwise.”  
   
“Right,” Dean sighs but his look of exasperation melts into one of caution as the angel clears the line of personal space and is standing a breath away. “Dude… you’re…”  
   
But Dean’s words are cut short by a sharp tug in his gut and the ferocity of it startles him, his eyes meeting Castiel’s and beyond that sea of blue there’s a light so radiant that he wonders if he’ll go blind from it. Its warmth permeates him, feeling the violence of it in his muscles but instinct is telling him that it’s the safest he’ll ever be. And while it’s not saying much, Dean thinks given his shattered, dismal existence, it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.  
   
“What…is…that…?” Dean asks, his voice far away and he doesn’t realize he’s leaned closer until his nose brushes against Castiel’s cheek.  
   
Dean jerks back, the proximity sending a jolt of machismo terror down his spine but it’s quelled quickly by curiosity, squinting still into the depths of the angel’s eyes. Castiel turns his head, feeling his vessel’s heart thumping wildly against his ribs and for as long as he’s inhabited it he’s still taken by surprise when it reacts to his emotions. He moves to take a step back embarrassment making his ears burn in a most uncomfortable way but Dean’s hand wraps around his wrist, keeping him from moving away.  
   
“What was that?” Dean demands, trying to catch Castiel’s gaze again but the angel is doing his best to deny him. “The light…it was…” the word ‘beautiful’ sits loaded on his tongue, “…bright.”  
   
“Grace,” Castiel mutters, looking resolutely at their shoes, Jimmy’s beat up loafers next to Dean’s weathered boots.  
   
“Grace?” Dean sounds confused, his fingers still holding the angel’s wrist digging in deeper as the word slithers its way down Dean’s spine. “I just saw your Grace?”  
   
“You were not meant to see it,” Castiel says hastily, trying again to take a step back, still avoiding Dean’s gaze but the hunter doesn’t release him.  
   
“Why not,” Dean asks somewhat disgruntled by the fact that Castiel won’t look at him, won’t give him a chance to get more than a glimpse of what’s inside of him.  
   
“Because it’s damaged,” Castiel barks, ripping his arm from Dean’s grasp and the man is startled by the outburst, blinking a few times to regain his senses as Castiel steps back to their agreed distance. Castiel takes a measured breath, clenching and unclenching his hands, wondering if it’s possible for his vessel’s ears to spontaneously combust.  
   
“Damaged?” Dean questions, his voice incredulous as if the idea were absurd. “From what? The souls?”  
   
Castiel merely nods, a tiny almost imperceptible movement and Dean’s face sobers, his mind dredging up things he’s been forcing himself to forget.  
   
“I thought…I thought you were fixed. ‘Good as new.’ That’s what you said.” Dean doesn’t understand the accusation in his own voice, doesn’t like the way it causes Castiel’s shoulders to curl in just slightly.  
   
“Nothing can really be made whole again,” Castiel replies softly looking down at his hands.  
   
To Castiel his Grace had never been anything more than an energy source so he figured once he’d expelled all of the souls and received redemption from his Father that it would be the same as always. But standing in the blinding gleam of Heaven’s most holy, he looked down at himself and the ramifications of his pride and his greed shown black through his already feeble glow, the ugliness of it sending him screaming back into his vessel which he hasn’t left since.  
   
“Well…” Dean starts and Castiel looks up at him watching the hunter search for something to say, bringing a hand up to rub across the back of neck. “Welcome to the club.”  
   
Castiel’s head tips to the side, his brow creasing in confusion and Dean sighs taking a step forward and right into, what Castiel was lead to believe is supposed to be, his personal space.  
   
“Everyone’s damaged Cas,” Dean says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Hell, look at Sam…look at _me_.”  
   
Castiel does look at him and marvels at how someone with a soul as brilliant as Dean Winchester’s can be damaged. Without thinking about it Castiel takes Dean’s wrist, just as Dean had done before and holds it, a human gesture to express his thanks and before he even realizes it Dean is staring straight into his eyes again, that look of awe crossing his face.  
   
“Man… how has no one else ever noticed this before?” Dean mutters and doesn’t even flinch when his lips brush Castiel’s as he speaks.  
   
“We are connected, you and I,” Castiel says softly his hand coming up tentatively to rest on Dean’s shoulder and that violent tug pulls in the hunter’s gut, the scar burning white hot even under two layers of fabric. “I find it hard to believe no one has seen your soul either.”  
   
Dean’s brow furrows as if some distant part of his brain is processing Castiel’s words but his main focus is still on the light show going on behind Castiel’s eyes. “My soul?”  
   
“You put the host of heaven to shame,” Castiel murmurs and Dean blinks hard, sucking in a deep breath that’s all Castiel, skin and dust and a hint of something electric, like the air before a thunderstorm.  
   
“Well… that’s…um…” Dean stutters and has a small moment of hesitation before shuffling backwards, bumping into the front of the Impala with a dull thump. “Ow. Um… thanks, Cas.”  
   
“You’re welcome, Dean,” Castiel says, completely unruffled by any of it, a small smile tugging at his lips that makes the corners of Dean’s own mouth tug up.  
   
“So…uh…” Dean says, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck as he turns to the Impala once more, trying to work up enough saliva to wet his dry throat. “You…uh… know anything about engines?”  
   
“They are machines designed to convert energy into useful mechanical motion. Heat engines, including internal combustion engines-”  
   
Dean throws a hand out cutting off the flow of words as he closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Just…just watch.”  
   
Castiel moves to stand next to the car and simply says, “Okay.”


End file.
